opportunity to challenge their theories. I said, “Dr. Little, let’s
begin with you. How many children have you?”
“Three.”
“How many more are you going to have?”
“None. I can’t afford them.”
“Professor East, how many have you, and how many more are you going to
have?”
And so the question circled. Not one planned to have another child,
though Dr. Little has had two since by a second wife. “There you are,” I
said, “a super-intelligent group, the very type for whom you advocate
more children, yet you yourselves won’t practice what you preach. If I
were to put this same question to a group of poor women who already have
families, every one of them would also answer, ‘No, I don’t want any
more.’ No arguments can make people want children if they think they
have enough.”
When the Conference was over, a final meeting was held at my apartment
to form a permanent international association of which Dr. Little was
made president.
Handling everything had been something of an undertaking, but after all
the delegates had been sent off we still had money in the bank. My faith
had been justified that, if you started something worth while, means for
its realization would be forthcoming.
_Chapter Thirty-one_
GREAT HEIGHTS ARE HAZARDOUS
“_Professor East, though you may try,
You fail to rouse my fears,
For I don’t dream that even I
Will live a hundred years;
But do not think I view with mirth
Five billion folk (assorted)
Five billion tightly packed on earth
Who cannot be supported._”
(South African Review)
At the conclusion of the New York Conference I thought that I was never
going to have anything to do with organizing another. But hardly more
than a few months had gone by before my mind was dwelling on one to be
centered around overpopulation as a cause of war. From the statements of
Keynes and the specialists of the League of Nations, and from the status
of the countries of Europe, it was inferred that international peace
could in no way be made secure until measures had been put into effect
to deal with explosive populations.
Between 1800 and 1900 the inhabitants of the world doubled in spite of
bloody wars, thus proving they were only temporary checks. For every
hundred thousand babies who died between dawn and dawn, Professor East
estimated that one hundred and fifty thousand were born. These fifty
thousand survivors contributed to the globe in twenty years a horde
almost equal to India’s three hundred and seventy-five million.
In the United States, numerically speaking, overpopulation was not of
apparent importance; we still had unoccupied lands. But evidence that we
were beginning to consider the quality of our citizens as well as the
quantity was shown in our immigration laws. In 1907 we had barred aliens
with mental, physical, communicable, or loathsome diseases, and also
illiterate paupers, prostitutes, criminals, and the feeble-minded. Had
these precautions been taken earlier our institutions would not now be
crowded with moronic mothers, daughters, and grand-daughters—three
generations at a time, all of whom have to be supported by tax-payers
who shut their eyes to this condition, admittedly detrimental to the
blood stream of the race.
Then our sudden closing of the doors in 1924 by placing the world on a
quota, threw Europe’s surplus population back on herself. Italy had to
face this problem as Germany had had to do in 1914. At the Institute of
Politics in Williamstown, Massachusetts, in the summer of 1925, Count
Antonio Cippico, Fascist Senator, virtually demanded that, to make room
for her “explosive expansion,” Italy be allowed to export her
half-million annual increase to foreign lands. Professor East answered
him, asking Italy first to put her house in order, and setting forth
with clarity the inexorable results of “spawning children on the world
with haphazard recklessness.” But she had no intention of doing so.
Shortly afterwards Mussolini outlined his plan: “If Italy is to amount
to anything it must enter into the second half of this century with at
least sixty million.”
Japan and Germany as well as Italy were already called danger spots in
1925. Japan’s goal was a hundred million. Göring was soon to say, “The
territory in which the Germans live is too small for our sixty-six
million inhabitants and will be too small for the ninety million which
we want to become.” The three military countries were pleading with
their women to bear more children, offering as inducements medals,
money, lands. They claimed the right of expansion because they were too
crowded at home, and were at the same time increasing their peoples in
order to promote successful wars.
Populations can fall into a semi-starved state of inertia, such as that
of India or China, unless they are aggressive. They have a choice of
three courses: to lower the standards of living to the bare subsistence
level, to control the birth rate, or to reach out for colonies as Great
Britain has done.
While we had been holding our conference in London in 1922 I had met at
one of Major Putnam’s luncheons the Very Reverend “gloomy” Dean Inge,
except that he was not gloomy at all; he was full of mischief. In his
late fifties, tall, thin as an exclamation point, quite deaf, he
reminded me of a Dickens character. He had commented in his usual
pungent style on the real meaning of the right to expand:
It is a pleasant prospect if every nation with a high birth rate has
a “right” to exterminate its neighbors. The supposed duty of
multiplication, and the alleged right to expand, are among the chief
causes of modern war; and I repeat that if they justify war, it must
be a war of extermination, since mere conquest does nothing to solve
the problem.
I was still of the opinion in 1925 that the League of Nations should
include birth control in its program and proclaim that increase in
numbers was not to be regarded as a justifiable reason for national
expansion, but that each nation should limit its inhabitants to its
resources as a fundamental principle of international peace.
On the other hand, it was all very well to say, “Cut down your numbers,”
but how could this be done if scientific and medical development lagged
so far behind that few knew how to do it? Building up huge populations
by following the way of nature was fairly simple, but it was by no means
simple to reduce them again voluntarily. No long-range program was
possible until economists, sociologists, and biologists alike should
garner and contribute facts to the solution. Therefore the occasion was
now ripe for the attention of the scientific world to be focused on the
population question. I planned to bring them together at Geneva, the
logical meeting place.
Dr. Little, who had accepted the presidency for the next international
birth control conference, had gone to the University of Michigan as its
President. He had no time for organizing, raising money, getting
speakers; if this lengthy job of organizing the World Population
Conference were to be done I should have to do it.
So great was the competition between the League of Nations and other
groups desiring to hold conventions at Geneva during its sessions that
you had to book an auditorium and rooms for delegates practically twelve
months ahead. Consequently, towards the end of 1926 I went to Geneva to
make arrangements for an expected three hundred guests. I had previously
become acquainted with several Genevese. William Rappard, then a
professor at the university there, consented to go on our committee and
advise me on social details with which only a native would be familiar.
More vital to me was the Labor Office of the League, where it was not a
matter of politics but of industrial problems thrashed out by people
chosen for their special knowledge. Here I met Albert Thomas, a
strange-looking person, short, stocky, with black beard sprouting over
his face, very talkative, amazing in his energy, traveling over Europe
by night, arriving in Geneva in the morning, conducting his business
affairs, making speeches. But with all this activity he managed to spare
hours enough to help me immeasurably when I consulted him on subjects,
persons, locations, and dates.
The Salle Centrale was engaged for three days, August 30th to September
2nd of the next year, 1927. Back I went to London to enlist an English
committee. Clinton Chance became my husband’s assistant in supervising
finances, and also provided London headquarters in his offices,
supplying stenographers and secretaries. Edith How-Martyn joined us and
I secured the invaluable aid of Julian Huxley, brother of Aldous, a
brilliant, young, enthusiastic scientist, alive and having a mind that
not only took things in, but gave them out. The Conference owed much to
his fair and just opinions and the fine supporters he rounded up.
Together we went over names and names and names, trying to choose a
chairman of sufficient distinction around whom European scientists would
rally. Professor A. M. Carr-Saunders at first accepted, but a month and
a half later informed me his other obligations were so heavy he would
have to limit his participation to membership on the Council.
After weeks of uncertainty, interviews, and rejections, we selected Sir
Bernard Mallet, K.C.B., once of the Foreign Office, Treasury, Board of
Inland Revenue, later Registrar General of Births, Deaths, and
Marriages, and President of the Royal Statistical Society. Although very
English, he was not too conservative. He knew well Sir Eric Drummond,
then head of the League of Nations, and also had many friends on the
Continent, particularly in Italy. He was typical of an individual who
had climbed far, who knew where he was going and the road by which he
should travel. Bored at being now in retirement, he accepted our offer
willingly because, although no salary was attached, it would give him a
position and an interest, and keep him socially in touch with noteworthy
figures. Lady Mallet’s previous experience as lady-in-waiting to Queen
Victoria made her an expert hostess, and this too we needed.
Once I had to make an expedition all the way to Edinburgh to seek out
Dr. F. A. E. Crew, a shining light among the younger biologists, who was
making hens crow and roosters lay eggs. He readily agreed to come to the
Conference and during the two days I visited him helped me build up my
program.
I also wanted a paper read by André Siegfried, author of _America Comes
of Age_, written after journeying some six weeks through the United
States. When he invited me to tea at his home in Paris, I found him in
appearance more like a mixture of American and English than French. But
you could feel from his attitude and deduce from his conversation that
he really envied, despised, hated Americans; by invading France with our
“wealth and vulgarity,” we had utterly spoiled it for his compatriots.
Appreciating good food, which we never had at home, we squandered
enormously, four or five times what they did. The same was true of wine;
we were drinking their best, paying high for it without being able to
tell the difference when we were given cheap vintages. Consequently, the
Parisians were being shut out of Paris because they could not afford the
prices.
“I don’t see how you can blame the Americans for coming over and paying
what you French ask,” I replied. “You might have a complaint perhaps if
we tried to undersell you or refused to buy. But it seems to me you are
profiting considerably by this ‘outrageous intrusion of the American
dollar.’”
Although we did not get on very well and although he would not read a
paper, he consented to attend.
Some of the preliminaries having been set, my husband took a villa at
Cap d’Ail between Nice and Monte Carlo and near enough to Geneva, Paris,
and London for trips whenever necessary. From my room the sunrise was
incredibly vivid—reds and yellows mixed with the glorious blue of the
Mediterranean. But it was not warm. H.G., who had a villa at Grasse,
said the Riviera reputation for summer heat in wintertide was a fraud.
We used to drive up to see him; the flowers for the perfume
manufactories grew thick on the hillsides, so thick that the air for
miles around was fragrant. Occasionally we picnicked in the tiny village
on top of the mountain of Ez, a favorite haunt of artists. Once the old
castle had belonged to robber barons, who could see for miles the
approach of a ship; now the elder Mrs. O. P. Belmont had a palatial
residence there.
The Riviera was always a Mecca for English people wanting to escape
their own cold and fog and damp, and our eight guest rooms were full
most of the time. It was quite novel for me to manage a household in
French. We had the traditional bad luck of Americans; the maids stole
from the guests and the hot water boiler only held ten gallons—not a
person could have a good bath until a modern one was installed. My first
cook was an expert in her field, but I soon found she was running over
in her bills, even allowing for the customary perquisite of a sou for
each franc she spent with the butcher and the greengrocer. Eggs and
butter were on the list every day, but never how many eggs nor how much
butter. I laid the responsibility on my own bad French, before I
discovered it was her understanding of Americans. Then and there I told
her she had to leave the following day immediately after breakfast. She
received this ultimatum with tears and wailing. Somewhat uneasy I rose
early at seven only to find she had gone late the preceding night,
taking with her every scrap of food in the pantry and storeroom except
the salt.
On one of my frequent flittings to London I went to a hairdressers’
shop, unfamiliar to me but carrying the insignia of reliability, “By
Appointment to Her Majesty.” I was to return to Cap d’Ail in a few days
and wished to appear with a wave in my hair, which I wore Mid-Victorian,
very sweet and simple. After washing it, the coiffeur put an iron on a
little gas arrangement in the window near by and left the room while it
was drying, floating out in the wind.
Meanwhile I meditated on the subject of hair. The story of Samson seemed
to have been more than an allegorical tale. I could tell from the way
mine acted on being brushed in the morning how I myself was going to be.
If it were strong and electric, then I was full of vitality. When
slumped over my forehead so that it had to be tied down, then I dragged
about spiritlessly.
It was also interesting to analyze why a woman should wear her hair in a
certain style. I knew some who, at the age of sixty, curled theirs in
baby ringlets; doubtless something within them wanted never to grow up.
Women who had gone into the underground movement in Russia took the
shears to theirs so that nothing should divert the attention to feminine
appeal. I was not enough of a Feminist to sacrifice mine, but I had once
come to the conclusion that the triumph of life would be to push it
straight back from my forehead and tie it in a knot behind, because that
was how people thought I looked. But I could not do it. No matter what
was said about your feet or your figure, you could at least show your
hair—in front of hats, down your back, everywhere, and so I had clung
tenaciously to my long locks.
At this point in my musings I smelled something burning and turned
around to find half my hair singed off to my ear. I gave one shriek, and
the whole staff rushed in. But it was too late; it all had to be cut
short and I actually wept.
As soon as I reached Paris I had what was left done up like a switch so
that I could put it on if I felt too badly. I kept it in a box, all
ready in case my husband did not want me without my hair. Eventually I
had to face his disapproval. I appeared for dinner. Nothing was said.
Although internally amused the guests maintained grave faces, waiting
for him to notice it; not until next morning did he do so. My own
attitude had changed overnight; never did I want to return to long hair.
During early spring, just when it was beginning to be most beautiful, I
could spend little time at Cap d’Ail. Permanent headquarters were
established in April at Geneva—four airy, spacious rooms up two flights.
I had expected Edith How-Martyn to be with me, but she came down with
scarlet fever in London. It was a complication to do without her until
Mrs. Marjorie Martin, who had organized a pool of stenographers,
secretaries, and typists at the Labor Bureau, furnished us with a most
competent and experienced office staff of seventeen.
At four-thirty our large reception room was transformed into a living
room where all the employees and volunteers gathered. Each in turn
provided cakes, brewed the tea, and washed up afterwards. One evening at
a quarter to seven some good American stopped in and, seeing everybody
smiling and cheerful though still at work, asked, “Will you tell me what
magic you women use to create this atmosphere? You’ve been at it since
seven this morning.”
The answer was—tea at four-thirty.
I liked being in Geneva, neat and clean and filled with watch shops. I
did not even mind the great numbers of people in solemn, black clothes.
If anyone died in this Calvinist city, the family wore full mourning for
one year, and half for the following—in large families the process
became almost perpetual.
I was not stimulated by the League sittings. There was much reading of
papers and a lot of noise, but no breathless excitement during the
debates. Instead, the members talked in small groups, looking very
bored. The big things, just as in Washington, were done behind the
scenes, at dinner tables, and in private conferences. The general
meetings were merely sounding boards for public opinion. One of the most
interesting features was the way a delegate could make a speech in his
own language and others at their desks could plug in earphones and hear
it simultaneously in theirs, coming from booths off stage.
Delegates to our Conference were all asking whether their papers were to
be given in their respective tongues. I came to one swift decision—to
adopt the bilingual League precedent of French and English. It was
simple enough to secure interpreters who were familiar with political
terminology, because they swarmed at Geneva, but to find those who
understood scientific terms in German, Italian, Hungarian, Scandinavian,
Portuguese, Greek, Spanish, Japanese, and Chinese was quite another
affair. We tried to catch as many as we could passing through Geneva and
hold them over during the time we needed their services.
In order to facilitate matters my husband generously financed the
morning journal to be delivered on the breakfast tray of every person
registered at the Conference, and also to members of the League of
Nations. It was printed in English and French in parallel columns,
containing the papers, the discussions, and any news items that might
concern the delegates.
Entertainment was an important feature. A series of luncheons was to be
held at the Restaurant Besson, with a host at each table, and daily the
seating was to be rearranged so that each guest might be placed between
those who spoke his own language or languages. M. Rappard was to give a
reception. M. Fatio invited us on board the _Montreux_ to visit Mme. de
Staël’s former home at Coppet. The chief social event was the reception
and dinner at Mrs. Stanley McCormick’s Fifteenth Century Château de
Prangins at Nyon. She herself could not be there, but sent a
representative from America to open it, equip it with servants, and make
everything ready.
Adequate handling of publicity was essential, and Albin Johnson,
correspondent of the New York _World_, did this for me. He knew who was
who, whom to avoid, and what persons would put the proper emphasis on
what. He volunteered his services, but some of his assistants had to be
paid.
We offered expenses to all speakers and certain visitors who might later
be influential in their own communities. The outpouring of money was
constant and I was not getting enough by soliciting from wealthy
individuals. Consequently, giving up the villa in May, I came back to
the United States to secure some from a foundation.
By now I knew I should be gone for at least another year, and someone
had to take charge during my absence. The woman on our Board of
Directors who seemed to be the most selflessly devoted, giving time and
effort without stint, able to speak and to direct, was Mrs. F.
Robertson-Jones. She went to meetings in blizzard or rainstorm, by
subway or on foot if necessary. No dressmaker, no friend dropping in to
lunch kept her from her job. But she differed from me in one respect.
She could not run things unless she felt secure; she wanted a definite
signing on the dotted line for so much annually instead of voluntary
contributions of what people felt they could afford when they could
afford it. This was quite against the spirit on which the movement had
always proceeded, but I was willing to compromise. I did not then
realize how serious it was going to prove in the future to have ceded
this fundamental precept. She accepted the temporary presidency and I
sailed back, reaching Geneva in July.
I was surprised at the rising tide of international solidarity which, in
this non-industrial city, evidenced itself in astonishing fashion the
night Sacco and Vanzetti were to be electrocuted. I had been working
late at the office and when I came out towards midnight the crowds in
the streets were so dense I could hardly move. As soon as word came in
the early morning that the execution had not been stayed, they shouted
reproaches before the houses of Americans, smashed the windows of the
United States Consulate, and some in the League building. Even in front
of the Hôtel des Bergues, where we were stopping, they clamored their
protests.
The great Dr. William Welch of Johns Hopkins was in Geneva at this time,
a cheerful person, roly-poly, abounding in fun and sly, acute remarks.
To listen to his unimpressive conversation you would never suspect that
here was one whose name was known around the world. We had lunch
together one noon. He knew how much I was depending on the Conference,
how much I was hoping that the population aspect of birth control should
be started in the right direction and under the right auspices. He
walked a little way with me and then, putting his arm across my
shoulders, said, “Perhaps you think your battles are over, but they
aren’t.”
I felt he was trying to prepare me for something having gone wrong,
though I could not imagine what it was. From then on I was aware of an
unpleasant subterranean mystery insidiously disturbing the previous
harmony. But nobody talked openly.
During my absence in the United States, Sir Bernard had been collecting
his European friends. Not only was Italy intent on increasing her
population, but the reactionary element of France also had formed a
society to combat birth control. We had invited the Italians, Guglielmo
Ferrero and Gaetano Salvemini, but Sir Bernard had been induced to
accept as a substitute Corrado Gini, who, dark, swarthy, highly
egotistical, speaking English painfully, was the perfect mirror of
Mussolini’s sentiments, and turned out to be a most tiresome speaker and
a general nuisance.
The delegates, Gini among the first, began to gather late in August. The
storm broke the Friday before our scheduled opening Tuesday, August
31st. Proofs of the official program had just come to me for my
approval. Sir Bernard came into my office and looked at them. “Well,
we’ll just cross these off,” he said, drawing his pencil through my name
and those of my assistants.
“Why are you doing that?”
“The names of the workers should not be included on scientific
programs.”
“These people are different,” I objected. “In their particular lines
they are as much experts as the scientists.”
“It doesn’t matter. They can’t go on. Out of the question. It’s not
done.”
A long cry of dismay went up from the staff. They considered the action
reprehensible and petty. The young woman who was to deliver the program
to the printers would not do so. Saturday morning, secretaries and
typists—twenty-one altogether—struck in a body, and without them the
Conference could not proceed successfully.